So I went and checked out Versed, by Rae Armantrout, to try and expand my poetic experience, and I don't loving get any of it, which makes me feel stupid and uneducated. Is there an accessible poet of the last 20-30 years you'd recommend, or should I just keep pushing through Versed?

Edit: Like for real, I've read and enjoyed poetry before, but this feels like I'm watching the poet masturbate with the english language. I'm not sure how that makes me feel.

It can be a hell of a contentious issue, and it really comes down to personal taste. I've read novels and my reaction was basically, "What the gently caress it this poo poo?," but you know what, someone wrote it, someone took it and believed in it enough to publish it, and people bought it. But to me, it is loving terrible.

I've submitted stuff to magazines, and this has actually happened, and have gotten a critique that basically says, "This is garbage," in a polite way, and the magazine down the street from them publishes it and invites me to participate in a public reading. Different readers want different things. Hell, I've also written stuff no one loving likes.

Take for example, Twinkle Cave's critique of my poem. Now I don't consider myself a poet by any means, but his main critique seems to be that the poem was a shallow rhyming picture poem. The thing is, that's probably what most of the general public expects when they read poetry, but it's not what Twinkle Cave wanted, and I would wager there are a lot of people in this thread that would agree with him. Does that invalidate someone's opinion if they like the poem I wrote? Of course it doesn't. You're allowed to like or hate whatever the gently caress you want.This poem is nothing but rhyming couplets and it's considered a classic where I live. It's a crapshoot.

You are allowed to read Rae Armantrout's poetry and think it's self-masturbatory dogshit. I'm sure lots of people do, but that doesn't mean it isn't a prime example of good poetry to someone else. There are a bajillion different audiences out there.

So, is the word "stinkyhole" ever-changing, or is it a stinkyhole made of words? Do the words change, or the stinkyhole? Is it a talking stinkyhole? A 365-day calendar stinkyhole with, like, a different word and definition every day?cuntcuntcunt

You are allowed to read Rae Armantrout's poetry and think it's self-masturbatory dogshit. I'm sure lots of people do, but that doesn't mean it isn't a prime example of good poetry to someone else. There are a bajillion different audiences out there.

But that's my point- what if I can't appreciate it due to my ignorance of what constitutes good poetry?

We hope you are enjoying your time in the Thunderdome and have enjoyed the 24/7 buffet of the blood of your enemies. However, it has come to our attention that some of you are carrying on a conversation that would be better suited to the following fine thread: http://forums.somethingawful.com/sh...hreadid=3527106

Please feel free to get your rear end in there to discuss poetry in more detail than specifically mocking another participant.

We hope you are enjoying your time in the Thunderdome and have enjoyed the 24/7 buffet of the blood of your enemies. However, it has come to our attention that some of you are carrying on a conversation that would be better suited to the following fine thread: http://forums.somethingawful.com/sh...hreadid=3527106

Please feel free to get your rear end in there to discuss poetry in more detail than specifically mocking another participant.

So I went and checked out Versed, by Rae Armantrout, to try and expand my poetic experience, and I don't loving get any of it, which makes me feel stupid and uneducated. Is there an accessible poet of the last 20-30 years you'd recommend, or should I just keep pushing through Versed?

Edit: Like for real, I've read and enjoyed poetry before, but this feels like I'm watching the poet masturbate with the english language. I'm not sure how that makes me feel.

If you don't like it throw it down. You could read Bukowski but the last time I did that I circled Dallas 2 times with a 1/2 gallon of vodka and woke up on the beach in Biloxi. Ummm, those Best of Poetry whatever year are pretty good for skipping around in until you find something that looks like something you'd care to read. That is if your determined... my real recommendation is that poetry is a hex, stick to awesome fiction.

Death on Death (351 words)
Goodbye to you
Yes, hello, hello I am here
Iím sorry to bear bad news:
Youíre no more, youíve passed,
Youíve gone and spent your last
Moments of life.

No, there arenít any games
Miracles or second chances
Once you died you remain
In that state, forever
lifeless, forever over!

Donít start to cry now
Youíre many years too late!
Look, there isnít anything
I can do to help, I am just
Carrying you to the next
World of wonders
Probably.

I have had enough of this
Crying and sobbing
At time around death
Why canít you smile for
Once when you die
Or be happy
As I welcome you

I hate that youíve feared
Me; I hate that you have
Feared a force of nature
With a personality
Likes and needs
So much that you named
ĎItí the ĎGrim Reaperí
I much prefer ĎDeathí!

I didnít start off reaping
I didnít start off grim!
I started off picking
I started off grinning!

I am sick of you
Being scared of death
When it is only the briefest
Seconds at the end.
People resist being taken
As if moving on will hurt
As if I will hurt

No, I donít have
A loving scythe.
I donít cut you off
Your own body did that!
I just pick you up
So you get on
To the next world!

I donít have a steed
Of burning skulls
I donít need a ride
Of magic bones
To bring you out
From this place.

Do you want to stay
Here in this void?
The sizzling, swirling,
Swaying darkness?
Didnít think so!
So shut up and walk
With me.

No, there is no light,
No tunnels either.
Itís easy to get lost
In the realm of after
Death.

Whatís in the world beyond
This realm? I do not know
Nor do I care
Notice I handle deaths
Whatís before,
Whatís after,
What do I care.

Here at last we reached
The end of our team
Just give a step
Now go on then!
Move past!
Your life had ended
Your death had too

I liked this, but I think it would have been almost better to go full bore satire with it. I sort of get this image of a guy, especially when he drops the f-bomb, who is totally exasperated with all the mythology surrounding his career. A blue-collar worker who's just trying to do his job.

I don't understand a lot of the line breaks, though. They seem really arbitrary. For example:

quote:

No, there arenít any games
Miracles or second chances
Once you died you remain
In that state, forever
lifeless, forever over!

Why is there a line break between "Games" and "Miracles?" Like, it's not the end of a sentence. There's no thematic change, end of a clause, or meter or rhyme, etc. It doesn't feel like separating miracles and second chances from games really sets anything apart or brings anything thematic to the forefront. It doesn't mean much by itself or draw my eyes to it specifically. I feel like setting a word like "lifeless" apart from the words before and after, and putting lifeless out there by itself, would be more effective. It seems like there's only a line break there because you wanted one to fulfill your flash rule. I dunno line breaks like that just feel really prosey to me. Poetry is not exactly my forte, so I don't have much else to say. But yeah, I thought it was alright.

Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at Jan 14, 2013 around 22:45

Jesus, cleanup on aisle poetry some useless bunch of fumbleclucks just shat all over it. Seriously it is like four feet deep there are bits of corn beavers sharp-toothed watch escapements, and I don't know what else.

That said, despite the blizzard of insane flash rules it gave me grim pleasure to see combatants just cranking out whatever it was in them to crank. This is thunderdome, not a trade school. Only a fool thinks they have nothing left to learn.

Breaking surface of the bubbling shitpool this week were Sitting Here, twinkle cave, Surreptitious Muffin and budgieinspector. They wrote with grace and fire. Let them be recognised.

Of these, twinkle cave is victor, beating budgieinspector by a hair. His piece was morbid as gently caress but he didn't care. He now squats atop the slick pole that leads to the judgethrones. He is grinning like a fox eating poo poo off a wire brush.

Swimming far far below in the foetid roiling darkness is this week's loser, Your Sledgehammer clutching to his soiled bosom a piece of stupefying triteness.

The first rule of the Thunderdome, Your Sledgehammer? That first rule is write good words.

Benagain and Bad Seafood will be along soon to expand on why you are all terrible.

Judges for next week are twinkle cave, budgieinspector and Surreptitious Muffin, plus a secret judge who will make their presence known.

Can we do away with this clusterfuck of flash rules? Thunderdome thread seems really bloated, with a ton of noise and not a lot of signal. I think streamlining would help out the thread significantly.

edit: also, I know it's been said before, but jesus christ stop defending your piece. It doesn't matter if someone rips it to shreds, it's gonna happen to everyone here. This back and forth is obnoxious and just adds to the clutter.

edit: also, I know it's been said before, but jesus christ stop defending your piece. It doesn't matter if someone rips it to shreds, it's gonna happen to everyone here. This back and forth is obnoxious and just adds to the clutter.

Can we do away with this clusterfuck of flash rules? Thunderdome thread seems really bloated, with a ton of noise and not a lot of signal. I think streamlining would help out the thread significantly.

Yeah, I can't speak for the next judges, but I expect daisy-chained flash rules were a one and done.
But it seems to me bloat came from 1) flash rules 2) thunderbrawls 3) random discussion about stresses and poo poo 4) defensiveness 5) new thread eagers 6) crits 7) thank yous and defensiveness for those crits

Flash rules and brawls are okay in moderation (one round only, no three rounders), crits are great, random chat and thank you's/defensiveness are bullshit.

Can I just sign up for the next one regardless of what the prompt is (or how terrifying) because I haven't been making good use of this account at all. Not even close to enough Thunderdome in my life and/or post history.

Can I just sign up for the next one regardless of what the prompt is (or how terrifying) because I haven't been making good use of this account at all. Not even close to enough Thunderdome in my life and/or post history.

edit: also, I know it's been said before, but jesus christ stop defending your piece. It doesn't matter if someone rips it to shreds, it's gonna happen to everyone here. This back and forth is obnoxious and just adds to the clutter.

Quoted fo mothafuckin TRUTH

Like I said last week or whatever, fuckin write and crit and shitpost, stop careposting and talking about stresses and whether a penis dipped in horseshit is descriptivist or Lutheran or whatever the gently caress. I'm going black on comms for six or so days, and if I come back and this type of assfuckery is still going on, some weird loving flash rules will be coming down on the guilty.

Alright, Capntastic, here we go. I don't know much about poetry, but I at least do know what iambic pentameter is, and you have my sympathies for having to put up with it. Let's dive in and see if I can't at least offer something resembling a good critique for you.

Didn't hit the word count but didn't feel like forcing fetid puke out of my brain just to lengthen a poem. Fair enough.Wound Man
(274 words.)

The blade can cut its way down into
muscles, tendons, sinews, arrayed vessels. Good, macabre imagery here. I actually shivered a little.
The rash can spread its way across
the arms, the legs, the back, the breast.
Catalogued the body's scrapes and markings
upon one man to show inner workings. This confused me at first, but I got it after reading the next stanza. Guess I should have paid more attention to the title, actually.

Wound Man's virtue is his freedom from shame
which lets scholars memorize sufferings.
To carry pain and steel and illnesses,
burdens that grow and weigh upon the spine,
kind to us, open, as life's been to him.
He is just one man, to which all pain goes. Pretty good imagery here, and I like the mention of scholars trying to learn from him.

Cut back flesh reveals sick innards through gore.
Though his mind's state remains surreptitious,
through years of pokes and prods, scaldings and scrapes. A fair amount of detail, and it doesn't get too over-the-top. I like it.
One can't help but wonder about Wound Man.
Broker body than mind, or vice versa?
No one really wants to figure this out.

But still, he's there in stained pages and minds.
Our thoughts dance around his bloodied body,
focussed on all but the sum of his parts. I really like this line, despite the typo.
To learn from him is to deny insight.
Lessons that blind (beyond gouged out eyeballs);
studies that numb (outside of torn out nerves).

Recoil, subconsciously, from what he means.
Implacable in face, just drawn that way.
Quartered by thousands of horses, to teach.
No mind, we hope, placed in that head, or else
it too, wracked with trauma, madness, and pain,
we find ourselves wanting to help. Too late. These last two stanzas are great. They connect really well with the wikipedia link you posted, and makes that simple image used to teach doctors something much more sinister.

We've seen that no blade, gun, or germ affects
Wound Man's deathless stasis, at least for long.
Stagnation is his shameless pride, always.
Envy of immortality is fair,
scholars might all agree; aside from that cost.
Wound Man is a cut above, and below. I think you kinda blow it here. Not in a bad way, mind you, but you flat out explain to us that this poem is about the horrid reality that would be immortality, and how getting surgery to "fix yourself" over and over may lead to a fate worse than death, rather than letting the poem be a big enough hint on its own. I do like the last line, though.

Overall, I see the message of the poem and I think it does a good job of presenting that message, even if it does drop a bit of the subtlety at the end. The descriptions of Wound Man do a good job of creating a grotesque image in the mind, and that's good. Good enough that I really think you may've been able to cut out that final stanza entirely, to be honest. It seems to exist only to serve as an explanation for what I just read. Not necessarily a bad thing, just a nitpick I suppose.

You slip up on iambic pentameter a few times ("is his" "which lets").

I'm...not really sure what else to say, though. Like I said, I don't really know much about poetry, so I'm kinda taking this at face value and seeing what works. I will say that I think you've got something really good here, but a little more work may be needed to make it really shine. Reworking the final stanza is a must, for sure.

That's all I've got, really. I hope you got something useful out of it, and I apologize that I cannot be more critical. I just don't want to give you advice on something that I am not very knowledgeable about. I'm certain one of the judges will offer more sound advice.

I also don't know poetry for poo poo, so I'll just give my general impressions.

The tone seems really distant, and I'm not picking up a lot of texture or vibrant detail from this. I'm not sure how much of this was intentional, given the subject matter and your compositional constraints. It all seems sort of watery and empty. I can kind of dig it on the level of someone hyperventilating with their mind racing and generally being neurotic as gently caress, but I'd really love to have some more flavorful images to luxuriate in. But either way, yeah, a solid and honest attempt at working with "Poetry".

I liked it, it has a solid mix of the sort of details that make a story fun to read (cultural bits the read might not be familiar with, the relateable sensation of the protagonist getting hit in the face with leaves, etc.)

I don't know if this counts as "lacking importance" since it seems like the sort of story that might end up in a memoir or something, but one could easily argue that getting dinner ain't poo poo for one person while it's a cool experience for someone else.

Either way, there's a thread of clarity and honesty through it that carries it somewhere good, I think.

The last gleam of light left the big catís eye
All alone now, I began to cry
For soon, too, I shall die.

It wasnít this way at the start of the day
I quietly and expertly stalked my prey
Unaware of the horrible price I would pay.

The arrow was sharp and the bowstring was taut
I was too far now for this to be all for naught
I wouldnít leave without the animal I sought.

I saw the black stripes through the long grass
A tattooed cat, powerful and fast
The savannah went silent as a Roman mass.

I fired my arrow and the great tiger lunged
Teeth, claws, and blood; my memory expunged
Howls from us both as over the side we plunged.

We lay for a while at the bottom of the ravine
The golden wounded cat the most beautiful thing Iíd seen
And I began to reflect on the person Iíve been.

A great hunter, over animals I was lord
Pelts and heads and teeth Iíd horde
Evolutionís finest product, king of the food chain I roared.

In my rush for status, there was much I failed to see
I didnít understand how majestic my prey could be
My bloodlust reflected poorly on me.

The creatures I sought were valuable too
As worthy of life and respect as me and you
But instead we hunt them and cage them in zoos.

Only at the end did I realize the depth of my error
Lying next to the dying cat, I fought back my terror
Wishing for all the world that I had been fairer.

A shame that I learned the truth at so late an hour
We humans think we sit so high in our tower
But we do so much damage in our blind lust for power.

The understanding of this left me overwhelmed and shaking
But as I began to repent, the loose bonds of my consciousness were breaking
Spots danced before my eyes and the ground was quaking.

My painful self-understanding would follow me to my grave
And as the blackness took over, I tried to be brave
At peace with the knowledge that humans would never have the power they craved.

Dude. Just... dude.

I don't know where to start. You told a story; I can say that much. A Thing Happened. It had consequences.

Let's talk about rhyme. By rhyming, you make the end of each line a destination. Readers want the journey down the line to be smooth and exciting, and the destination to be the stuff dreams are made of. Take them on a pleasant enough journey, and most of them will forgive a ho-hum destination. But when you point them toward a hastily-laid road riddled with deep potholes covered by twigs and gravel, flanked on either side by high stone walls that look ready to fall down, it doesn't matter what the destination is, anymore--they won't want to go with you.

Your first job is to make the line feel natural and scan well. This:

For soon, too, I shall die.

...doesn't. It's the imposition of the "too". It's the faux-stoic tone. It's the scream of, "Look! This is dramatic!" It's the fact that you blurted this out in the first stanza of a death poem. But most of all, it's the fact that after "eye" and "cry", you chose "die". A trio of three-letter words for one of the most common vowel sounds in the language, and you didn't even have to work around any pesky consonants. The journey was tortured; the destination, unforgivably boring.

Meter / Momentum: Your meter is all over the place. At points, it seems like you're trying one out, but then you abandon it. So I have to assume that you weren't really going for anything particular in that department--which is fine.

So long as the piece has some kind of internal momentum.

It doesn't have to be a luge track, slick and speedy all the way to the end. You can stop, slow down, speed up--if you have a reason. What you can't do is clunk along for a bit, then add extra clunk:

Teeth, claws, and blood; my memory expunged
Howls from us both as over the side we plunged.

Stressed syllables slow us down, chains of unstressed syllables speed us up. Set up a rhythm ("DUM-da-da, DUM-da-da, DUM-da-da-DUM") and it's a breeze to read along. It's like dancing through the line. Ignore rhythm and your readers trip over their feet.

Tone and Character: This was the one thing that your prompt foisted on you; you had to write it in first-person.

Who's your guy?

He's a hunter. He's hunting big game with a bow and arrow, which tells me he's either technologically primitive or loving nuts. He's hunting a tiger with a bow and arrow. Tigers not being known for the succulence of their meat, he's either starvation-desperate, trying to protect his people/livestock from a predator, or trophy-hunting. You want to make it sound like the latter. I don't necessarily buy it, but okay.

So, this mighty trophy-hunter is alone in tiger-infested lands with his stone-age technology. He fucks up, he and the tiger go over a cliff, and as he lays dying...

He has an epiphany about how wrong he's been to spend his life killing animals.

And he invokes evolution. And he talks about zoos. Which means that he's not some provincial tribal big-shot hunting dangerous beasts at some point before the invention of firearms. He's got at least some book-learnin' and lives in a time after zoos graduate from being private royal menageries. Which makes me wonder:

* Why doesn't he have a gun?
* Why is he hunting alone, if he has all this status?
* What the hell sort of person gets knocked off a cliff by a tiger and, in his last moments, pontificates on how nice it would be if man could just peacefully coexist with nature?

Wrapping Up: You have to give the reader something to mull over.

humans would never have the power they craved

Really? Again, your guy's dying, and his last thought is "Take that, humans! You'll never truly rule the Earth!"? What a preachy little fucker this glorious hunter turned out to be. Doesn't he have, like, a wife, kids, a sled--anything else to think about, aside from this sudden radical justice-for-the-animals conversion? Is that the idea you want readers to take away; that if your fictional and unlikely trophy hunter can repent his life of slaughter, they can at least eat a Gardenburger once in a while for the sake of ecological balance?

"If you are using dialogue, say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech." - John Steinbeck

This Concludes My Crit is what I'd like to say. Let it sink in, stew for a bit, I've got a plane to catch anyway. But you guys have been real troopers and probably deserve a little more, so allow me to pontificate because I'm pretty sure that's a word Erik hates.

Read a lot of poems this week. Even liked a couple. Muffin made a strong showing, of course, and Budgie. Great imagery, you two; a real sense of intimacy and melancholy. Great stuff. STONE OF MADNESS, you weren't among Honorable Mentions but your poem made me smile, and for that you get all caps.

However.

There was one thing in particular that a lot of you tripped up on, including you Budgie just a little bit, and that would be flow. The flow of your piece, the sound, the rhythm.

Poetry is when you get right down to it playing with words. It's music without instruments, a song of pure language. A song that sometimes isn't even a song. Like human speech. When judging your pieces I read them aloud, and for about half found it difficult. I couldn't say how many of you spoke while you wrote, but I'd wager it wasn't many. A couple of you were strung along by your flash rules, but it's apparent at a glance who tried and who didn't, and who almost tried but didn't quite get it. The next time your stuck with a poetry prompt, read each line aloud as its own separate thing. Listen to yourself you'll have something comfortably.

In conclusion, Swaziloo your posts are pretty okay but next time you throw a thesaurus at me try to say something with it.

Three slav'ring heads the creature had
that staggered forth to greet me;
And though I knew it only meant
to judge me, not to eat me,
I felt a wave of panic wash
throughout my timid body Ė
For though I'd laboured through the night
my poetry was shoddy. [Amen brother.]

[The meter at the start is perfect and I give you kudos for just deleting that unnecessary syllable in the middle of 'slavering.' 'Scowling' might fit better, though I'll leave the call on overstatement to the author. On the down side, these first two rhymes are bound by little words that seem to complete the meter more than they connect the concepts.]

I knew that surge of primal fear,
that heralds one's demise;
And yet I struggled onward,
for to vindicate my lies.
I'm in, I'd said, I'm down for this,
you've lessons, I'm to learn them Ė
But one glance at my writings,
and I yearned inside to burn them.

["for to" trips me up, but, more of a story point: what lies? Also, "one glance" clashes with "laboured through the night" conceptually. Perhaps this was intentional.]

The creature knew it Ė this I sensed
from 'neath its wrathful glares;
The eyes of all three heads were turned
to scrutinise my wares.

[gently caress yeah, that right there.]

And now its dread mouths opened,
and let out a slew of scorn,
That did, though just, diminish me
to that which I'd been born Ė
An infant! Just a suckling babe,
all withered on the teat,
Not capable by half, it seemed,
of standing on its feet;
And all around, the jeering calls
of others in that Dome,
Did flood me with desirousness
to lock myself at home
And curl into a little ball
beside my TV set,
And lose myself in pabulum,
that I might soon forget
Those aspirations that had called me [as-prations works, as-pir-a-tions doesn't]
to the written word,
Instead to lumber on through life
an illiterate turd. [Hard-syllabic read required here - il-lit-ter-ate - feels forced]

[Here you lose my favor. The words more or less work out, but to the detriment of the narrative. I can't help but imagine you grinding away at this, trying to get the minimum word count. The imagery feels half-forced and uninspired.]

Alas, it was too late for this.

My efforts were exposed; [nit: I prefer period to semicolon here.]
that dread Judge laid its tentacle
upon my stinking prose,
And tearing, as an octopus
might shuck a barnacle,
The beast excoriated me:
'A try-hard, and a fool.'

[What's with that line break? It calls away my attention and adds nothing. Otherwise, sound form and substance once more.]

I wept, though no emoticon
could justly represent
The depth of sorrow that I felt Ė
but lo, the monster went
To criticise the next poster,
whose prose, I knew, was worse!
My terror dissipated like
some ineffectual curse, [I stumble on 'ineffectual', but I'm not certain why.]
And sighing with relief I sank
into my writer's chair;
The Thunderdome Chimaera
was reputed to be fair.

[The emoticon comment is trite, at best. 'poster' stands out in a not-good way. I'd be down with honest, brutal, forthright, opinionated, direct...but, 'fair?' Not so sure. This verse wanes.]

I could relax Ė I ate and slept,
and went about my life,
But niggling doubts kept at me,
always twisting, like a knife.
Before too long, I'd logged back in,
myself to reassure;
Imagine, then my horror Ė
'neath my name Ė the SHAME-ATAR!

[Ends on a downbeat for me. Perhaps that was your intention: just a touch groan-worthy.]

Considering the prompt and your micro-audience, I'd say you've delivered something worthy of acknowledgement (from your micro-audience.) However, where is the non-morbid death in this?

Iroel and Meis are both no shows and have shamed their ancestors. As for the rest of you, good job.

I hang my head in shame. Stuff caught up with me and I ran out of time (should have known better than to sign up for a poetry round during exam week...). Fortunately, my schedule is literally completely empty from now til the 28th of January! Who needs a social life when you have the Thunderdome!

What you're writing: A letter. Yes you will be writing this prompt in the form of a single page letter to someone.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistle will give you all the definition you need and some cool history to note.

Benagain: You wrote a fairly modernish letter in a standard email speak. I like that you were able to use a story arc within your letter and overall had a very consistent voice. It was a very lovely letter that I can see existing in the real world without much trouble. I did find that you were very loose with your prose which may have created a letter that was a bit too casual for its purposes.

Noah: You incorporated one story arc into the meat of your letter and stuck with it. You did a very interesting thing in that you created a very complex set of interactions and characters with very few words. Is the father holding his grandmother captive, or is he a victim of circumstance? Why is grandma trying to get away? why is Dad so nonchalant about grandma burrowing her way through the walls? You raised so many good questions with the characters in your story and used the element of mystery very well.

Final Ruling: This round goes to Noah and with it the Thunderbrawl. He created three characters with a tight economy of words and no direct way for them to do anything in the letter format. It's hard to do that so props to you. You may wear your balls around your neck now and display them for all to see.

You both did excellent! I hope to see more stuff from you two in the future.

As promised Noah. Here is my

HiddenGecko fucked around with this message at Jan 15, 2013 around 23:15

And well it might. I'm afraid my crit isn't going to be that detailed because I haven't found enough time to organise my thoughts, and I'm not sure many of my judgements are fair and accurate. So find yourself a salt-shaker, and get ready to pinch.

Emotive power.

Well, I'm pretty bummed out too. You've happened to take death at its most unvarnished, most common, and most relatable. It's quite easy to laugh of a cthonoic horror piece, not so much this. Depending on your definition of morbidity, you might have failed the prompt but for the last three lines, but if this week's taught us anything it's that sometimes, good writing comes first. This is some of it.

Language.

We could all have done with avoiding the word death. It reminds of that Louis CK bit, "using the phrase 'the n-word' is much worse, because you've made me say it to myself". I was drunk at your funeral is a hammer-blow that immediately lets us know what's going on, through out own small deduction. The language is very straight, and gives us a great sense of place, as it does in the final stanza. It's some of the stuff in the middle that catches me out, because I can't be sure it's the same poetic voice - a widowhood of the soul is jarringly high-faluting and anti-prosaic. The next line delivers the same effect (a new way of thinking of the moment, that disturbs us a little), but far more directly.

Content.

What's going on in this piece? Essentially, we're poring over the small details that make up a mourning. This is at its very best when it's something unconsidered, and weakens slightly in the second stanza - it feels all too familiar in a piece packed with unexpected moments. This is a good point to give a nod to the title, though. There's been a mini-trend towards obtuse titles in the dome which is all well and good as long as they throw light on the piece. "Every Day After" is pretty standard, but it frames everything perfectly.

Metre.

A debatable category since it's blank verse, but with BV a control of rhythm is arguably even more important. The last three lines are perfect, forcing the reader to bring things to a gentle close. bring / Brings is the king of these for me, perfectly articulating that sense shock as we realise a noise has become a signal, and conveying meaning and (geez) getting some healthy onomatopoeia in there. The drip enjambment is a chilling accompaniment. Other lines feel like they've been a bit arbitrarily spaced, but it's blank verse and you can't win 'em all.

Look, I'm afraid I can't give you a great crit here so I'll just say something broad; this works best when the images are things we haven't seen before, when the language matches the voice established from the outset (and isn't seduced by "poetry"), and when the formatting lets particularly horrific images unfurl themselves across a line break, rather than being too jarring. This is all an aside to the main point: the subject matter is harsh, the structure used to express it raw, and it works. I'm not surprised you stopped there. I couldn't have made it any further.

Sitting here your poem was good. I apologize for the crit delays but everything sucks for all of us and we're just going to have to move through the endless gray wastes of our lives one futile step at a time through sheer inertia, hope having died long ago.

1a. I was fretting.
1b. I'm in dismay because you didn't answer my last email.
2. HiddenGecko is a Hun.
3a. I didn't read it but it probably did suck.
3b. Mine are huge and made of solid tungsten. Just a PSA.

1a. I was fretting.
1b. I'm in dismay because you didn't answer my last email.
2. HiddenGecko is a Hun.
3a. I didn't read it but it probably did suck.
3b. Mine are huge and made of solid tungsten. Just a PSA.

I'm sorry I can't hear you over the clanging of your tungsten nuts, all I hear when you talk is BALLS BALLS BALLS

And on that tawdry night ran the skeleton How is a night tawdry?
Through the abbey and right into the fountain.
Pardon me maíam I've lost my head
But I think thatís better left unsaid.I don't know if limericks have any special conventions about dialog/commentary, but this bit is confusing because it's not immediately clear if it's the skeleton is speaking or someone else.
Oh my, what a scamp, that little demon!

Right down the road ran that tawdry skeleton Ok so now the skeleton is tawdry? Repetition of words in poetry can add to the effect or bring home an idea, but here it reads like maybe you really like the word tawdry alot
Every pub in town was made to hearken.
Maíam! Pleasure to see you on the stool
A lady of your caliber is no fool.
Iím just lonely, canít a lady get a swig of bourbon?So is this a lady skeleton? Is this skeleton hitting on ladies? In my very limited understanding of what a limerick should be, there's kind of a setup in the first 2 lines, then lines 3 and 4 introduce a "plot twist" or some some humorous angle. Then the last line wraps it all up. I'm sure there's lots of variations on this, but each stanza is a little hard to follow because they don't quite hit that sharp, witty image that limericks are good at.

A bone white finger signaled the barman
The skeleton acted the part of a bachelor.
Oh this ring? Weíre divorced maíam
Stay those heaving bosoms. The bartender's heaving bosoms?
Why I never, barman! another oily toucan!hmmmm guess not

Somewhere in the night a hat appears
On top of the bone white head it leers.
Come home with me tonight my lady
And donít think me creepy
Iím leaving, Iím calling the police! Stop those jeers!

The skeleton left alone that night, back to his grave
Feeling right pauper and a little bit knave.
The morning is upon me, it beams and smokes!<So the above three lines are probably my favorite because they feel the most "limericky," but then you kind of let it down with the last 2 lines because they don't really fit as well rhythmically, and I'm still not sure who'se supposed to be talking in the last line of each verse.
I guess Iíll go lay down with my kinfolks.
He just wasn't my type officer, and he just wouldn't behave!

So I like the idea of a skeleton running through a city trying to get his bone on. The problem is that in a lot of places, it seems like you went for a cheap/approximate rhyme, or no rhyme at all in some cases. And the rhythm. I read a bunch of limericks today to get a feel for them, and while there are a lot of writers who do all kinds of substitutions (even anti-limericks, apparently), some of the stanzas in this piece would fit unobtrusively in a free verse poem.

Like:
"A bone white finger signaled the barman
The skeleton acted the part of a bachelor.
Oh this ring? Weíre divorced maíam
Stay those heaving bosoms.
Why I never, barman! another oily toucan!"

Limericks are traditionally bawdy poems so you nailed that in subject matter, but missed the opportunity for wordplay and double entendre that I think this form lends itself to. I had a little trouble figuring out what was going on at some points because each stanza feels like a set of seperate images/ideas, and it's not always implict what's going on, especially with the unmarked, unsourced dialog that seems to come from both the skeleton and the ladies he's evidently hitting on.

Did you read this to yourself out loud at all? It might have helped with the very un-limerick-like meter.

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.

Thunderdome XXIV: Keyboard Kings

Alright kiddies, twinkle cave hasn't recovered from his victory night barhop coma yet, so the taking charge has fallen to myself and the honourable budgieinspector. After some discussion, we've decided that y'all are good at following rules but not so good when left on your own devices, so this week Thunderdome goes country.

Write a supernatural horror story set in a small town

Supernatural is important: think more Stephen King than Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

aaaaand that's it. There's not going to be any flash rules with strange form constraints or hidden surprises at the end: you're being given a fairly broad prompt to do whatever you want with. Upper limit is 1750 words. Deadline for signups with 11:59pm Friday NZDT, deadline for submissions is 11:59pm Sunday NZDT.